Chapter 3: Saturday Night, Week One

The atmosphere in Linda’s house on Saturday evening was a bizarre cocktail of surgical preparation and illicit anticipation. The air itself seemed to hum with a low, nervous energy. There were no friendly greetings, no offers of wine. The five women moved through the familiar rooms like ghosts, their usual camaraderie replaced by a focused, almost grim silence. Each was preparing her assigned space, her assigned role.

Carol, the architect of audacity, was in her element in the pool house. The small, secluded building was warm and humid from the day’s sun. A small futon was neatly made up with fresh sheets. Her assigned lesson: Cowgirl. She placed a bottle of water and a box of condoms on a side table. She felt a predator’s cool thrill. She was about to give Linda’s golden boy, Jason, a lesson he would never forget.

Inside the house, the other women were in their respective rooms. Linda was in the guest room, decorated in soothing beiges and blues. She’d drawn Oral, focused on him. She had already undressed and put on a sophisticated lace bodysuit. Her approach was organized and efficient. For her, this was about demonstrating optimal technique to Chloe’s stepson, Leo.

Anjali was in the finished basement, a large, carpeted space. She had drawn Missionary. She had pushed the coffee table aside and laid down a thick blanket. Her approach was methodical. She wore a simple silk chemise. For her, this was a practical exercise in the pedagogy of intimacy with Maria’s son, Mark.

Maria was in the home office, a small room dominated by a large desk. She had drawn Oral, focused on her. She was a wreck. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She’d tried to put on a lacy black chemise but felt exposed and foolish. She kept wondering what Anjali’s serious son, Ben, would think. The anxiety was a live wire under her skin.

And Chloe was in the master bedroom. She had drawn the room no one wanted: anal, doggie style. The king-sized bed was immense. She stood by the window, looking out at the dark yard. She felt a profound sense of dread. She was to be with Carol’s son, Noah. The sarcastic, sharp-witted boy. How could she possibly assume a position of such vulnerability with him? The act itself terrified her, but the thought of failing the group terrified her more. She wrapped her arms around herself, waiting.

At precisely 7:00 PM, the front door opened. The five young men filed in. There was no joking, no punching of shoulders. The usual easygoing dynamic of their friendship had been replaced by a palpable, awkward tension. They stood in the foyer, a group of handsome, nervous boys trying to look like men.

On the hall table were five envelopes, each with a name. Linda’s doing, of course.

Jason reached for his first. He opened it, his hands steady. “Pool house,” he read aloud, his voice flat. “Cowgirl.” He didn’t look at the others, just turned and walked through the living room towards the sliding glass doors, his jaw set.

Mark grabbed his next. “Basement. Missionary.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Classic. I like it.” He clapped Ben on the shoulder and headed for the basement stairs, his steps light with anticipation.

Ben opened his envelope. “Office. Oral, focus on her.” His cheeks flushed a dark red, but his expression remained somber. He adjusted his glasses and walked toward the closed office door without a word.

Noah found his name. “Master bedroom. Doggie. Anal.” He let out a low whistle. “Starting with the advanced course, huh?” He glanced at Leo with a raised eyebrow, then sauntered down the hall towards the master suite.

Leo was last. He picked up the final envelope. “Guest room. Oral, focus on him.” He looked at the closed guest room door, behind which Linda waited. He took a deep, slow breath, then walked forward and knocked softly.

The house fell into a silence broken only by the soft click of five doors closing.

The Pool House: Carol and Jason – The Curriculum of Control

The humid air of the pool house clung to Carol’s skin as she stood waiting, a predator in a silk cage. She’d chosen a black lace teddy that left nothing to the imagination, the fabric a stark web against her pale skin. A knock—solid, but with a hint of hesitation. Linda’s golden boy.